


It Goes On

by AllTheMissingSocks



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake AH Crew, FakeHaus, GTA!AU, Immortal Fake AH Crew, Multi, Slow Burn, Trans Jack Pattillo, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, these boys got some communication to fix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-06 15:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheMissingSocks/pseuds/AllTheMissingSocks
Summary: Jeremy is stuck in the wrong crew, one false move away from toppling everything he's worked for.  When he's offered a chance he can't pass up from a Kingpin he very literally can't refuse, Jeremy finds himself in a position he never thought he'd be in: face the wrath of old enemies or try to go against the wishes of the Fake AH Crew.





	1. Chapter 1

Jeremy Dooley isn’t a good person in any way. He doesn’t give five dollars to the organization that the cashier names as he hands him his coffee in the morning. He thinks that his parking tickets are a stupid thing for the police to focus on when there’s a robbery literally happening just down the street, but they don’t take his advice too kindly. He pays his rent late, not to mention disregarding the no-pets rule in his studio apartment building, because come on: cat’s are basically people, aren’t they? Guess he should just throw in the fact that he’s a driver for one of the seediest cartels in Los Santos, Los Zetas.

That’s why he doesn’t know why the fuck he feels pity for the one man who is standing in the rain on the side of the road during one of his pickup jobs. All he has to do is pick up one of the cartel’s frontwoman from the job when she’s done. He’s parked across the street from one of the Zetas’ dockside warehouses when he sees the guy.

It’s about seven at night, and the more adventurous muggers and homeless who aren’t hiding from the weather are starting the eye the black Audi that he’s waiting in with jealousy. Jeremy’s loaded pistol rests against his thigh. He’s not too worried about the stragglers, but the man is starting to worry him. No one is out this late at night unless they have an agenda.

He takes a closer look at the guy’s clothes and wonders why he isn’t in a car. The soaked-through blue button down he’s wearing looks nice, and the gold chain and earrings that he’s wearing don’t look fake. He’s not carrying a gun, and Jeremy guesses that he’s not any sort of hired muscle from his slim build.

_Maybe he’s just a regular businessman_ , Jeremy musses. _Maybe he’s just waiting for a ride._

The guys violently shudders suddenly. Jeremy feels a pang in his heart. It’s been a while since he’s had to live on the streets, but he still remembers how pervasive the cold was; it swallowed him whole on rainy nights. He thinks back to a night before he met Trevor and Matt, where it was just him and the butterfly knife he stole off a mugger. He had been on Skid Row for a month, and while winter didn’t really mean anything in Los Santos, it still dropped below freezing some nights. Maybe this guy doesn’t need help, but maybe he does. As for Jeremy, there’s real no risk for him. Why worry about harm if it just heals as fast as it happens?

The man shakes again, and Jeremy’s heart twists again. He quickly checks his phone. No new messages from the guy he works for, and nothing from Matt and Trevor. He doesn’t have to pick up their frontwoman for another two hours, and nobody suspicious has pulled up near the warehouse since the deal started.

Without waiting to regret his decision, he jams the gun back into the glove compartment, turns the car on and pulls away from the curb, then does a U-turn so he’s in front of the guy in the button down. The man startles and almost drops his phone, but smiles warily when Jeremy rolls down the passenger window.

“Hey, I’m sorry but do you, uh, want a ride?” He cringes as soon as he thinks about what he just said, trying to backtrack. “Not in like, a creepy way though! You were just out here, and it’s raining, and you know what? I’m sorry I bothered you, I’m just gonna, uh...”

His face is burning, and it might be a little bit because up close, he can see the stranger’s friendly green eyes and thinks that maybe if he weren’t soaking wet, the guy would be quite attractive.

Before he can race away down the street, the man reaches a hand out and says quickly, “Wait!”

Jeremy takes his foot off from where it’s resting on the gas pedal and sheepishly turns to the stranger, who smiles at him. “I really could use a ride right now, since you’ve been so kind to offer?” His voice is warm, with a pleasing British lilt. Jeremy nods his head, “Yeah, I got plenty of time to kill.”

“Lovely! You’re the nicest man in this whole city,” the man exclaims, and Jeremy’s face heats in embarrassment again. God, he’s just the biggest fucking mess. He unlocks the doors, and the man folds into the backseat. He’s tall, with dyed blonde hair. A few stray hairs hang down, disturbed from his neat quiff because of the rain. His face rings a bell somewhere in the back of Jeremy’s brain, but maybe it’s just because it reminds him of that one time Trevor bleached his hair.

“I live just near the Maze bank, about five minutes away in an apartment building,” he says, and Jeremy starts to pull onto the highway leading downtown. In the rearview mirror, he sees the man look down at the leather seats and frown.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” he apologizes, and it sounds sincere to Jeremy. “My ride is a right prick and is refusing to pick me up. Been out here for about three hours now.” Jeremy waves a hand in dismissal but keeps his eyes on the road. The situation is starting to feel a bit surreal, but at least he feels like he made the right decision. “Don’t worry about it, it’s not my car. I kind of feel like trashing it just a bit anyway.”

The man smirks, “Some harsh feelings about your boss?” Jeremy snorts. “Harsh feelings is little bit of an understatement. He’s a selfish and cowardly bitch. The kind of man who needs to beat down others to feel good.”

He’s not feeling too forgiving towards his boss, Kane, after he gave Trevor a suicide mission a few weeks ago. Jeremy desperately tried to step in, begging the man to let him go instead. Jeremy could survive breaking into the building they were being sent to. Trevor couldn’t. He ended up getting the job by offering to do it for no pay. The disregard for Trevor’s life still made him seethe whenever he thought about it.

The man laughs lightly, and a bit of Jeremy’s awkwardness stops tying his stomach in knots. “My name’s Jeremy, and I’m a chauffeur for some idiots with money. I was just waiting for a few hours for a banking deal to finish, so I thought I’d just help you out,” he says to fill the silence. Maybe he should have told him the name he goes by during jobs, but something about this mystery man makes him feel like he should be more forthcoming.

“I’m Gavin,” He introduces himself. His voice turns a bit more serious then, and Jeremy’s heart plummets a bit in his chest. “And I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re the nicest person I’ve met here. Don’t know if you know, but Los Santos isn’t really a city of genuine people. Bit surprised you would trust someone enough to let them in your car.”

It sounds a bit like a warning, but Jeremy does know about the filth sown in the city. Everybody learned it very quickly through lots of broken promises and first hand experiences if they wanted to survive. They make small talk for a bit, Jeremy lying through his teeth about some ridiculous stories of things people have done while he’s driving them. Gavin tells him about how he came to America for better opportunities to make it as a tech entrepreneur. He has the sneaking suspicion that they’re both telling tales here, but who is he to call someone out when his own job is to deceive and steal?

They sit in comfortable silence for a bit more before Gavin points out his street and then apartment building. He parks by the lobby doors, and Gavin slides out of the car. Gavin walks up next to the passenger window, and raps on it so that Jeremy rolls it down. He leans down and rests his forearms against the window so he can look directly at him. Jeremy feels like he’s caught in Gavin’s bright green eyes, frozen in place. There’s a glint in his eyes, something a little feral, a little dangerous.

“Left a little thank-you note by the seat for you. Thank you so much, Jeremy,” he purrs, then waves and walks up to the building doors. Jeremy sits, dumbfounded, for a minute. He doesn’t know what it was, but something about Gavin leads him to think that he's more that he says he is.

Jeremy wills his heart to beat a bit slower, then puts the car back into drive and peels back onto the highway. A knot of wariness and worry sits heavy in his chest. He parks back in front of the warehouse, where it looks like nothing has changed. As soon as he unbuckles his seatbelt, he turns around to look for what Gavin could have meant by a thank-you note.

There’s an envelope tucked into the pocket on the back of the seat. He grabs it and swallows. There could be anything in there, from a simple letter to an assortment of airborne killers. After checking for anything on the outside of the envelope, Jeremy’s curiosity gets the best of him and he takes a deep breath before taking a small knife out of his pocket and slicing open the letter. He gaps at the envelope for a second before dumping all the contents out into his lap. It’s money; a large stack of hundred dollar bills with the currency straps still on it.. He quickly thumbs through the stack and estimates that there’s at least $10,000 in the envelope. Jeremy drops the stack like it burns and drags both hands through his dyed-green hair. “No way. No fucking way,” he quietly murmurs.

There’s a note in the envelope and Jeremy carefully picks it up with shaking fingers. Thanks for the ride is all that is written on the paper. Underneath that is a name signed in looping black ink.

_Gavin Free_

Worry makes Jeremy’s stomach roil, and his head spins. Gavin Free. Negotiator and hacker for the infamous Fake AH Crew. He gave a ride home to a member of the most dangerous crew in Los Santos. His eyes grow round with horror. Gavin Free knew his face, knew his real name. There was no way he would be intentionally tracked down, but what if he was seen on a job? Matt and Trevor could be in danger too, if it was found out that they were friends with the man who took Gavin Free’s money. It was a well-known fact that the FAHC wasn’t above using hostages and roughing them up to get what they wanted.

He feels like he’s going to throw up, but at that moment the doors to the warehouse slam open. The frontwoman walks out, hands full of two binders and several manila envelope. She turns her nose up at him from outside the car, glaring, pantsuit looking sharp and not a hair out of place since he dropped her off four hours before. As she moves around to the passenger side, Jeremy hurriedly shoves the bundle of money and accompanying note deep into the pocket of his leather jacket. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t trust his voice so he just nods his head at the frontwoman and drives in silence to the drop off point. He leaves the Audi in the parking garage, takes his small amount of pay for the job, then sprints through the rain down the block to his apartment.

As he waits for the elevator to bring him to his floor, he closes his eyes and leans back against the cool metal wall. He can’t tell Trevor and Matt where the money really came from, because that might put them in danger. There’s no way that Gavin fucking Free gave him ten grand out of the goodness of his heart. Maybe it would be best if he just puts it in his own private safe. Besides, if they try to use it against him as borrowed money, he can just return it.

The doors open with a ding and he goes straight to the door and walks inside, making sure to lock the door behind him. In the living room, Trevor and Matt are sitting on their ratty green couch, Trevor typing away at his laptop and Matt with an Xbox controller in his hands. The tinny Legend of Zelda music follows him as he walks down to his room.

Jeremy takes the money and note from Gavin out of his pocket and locks it in the safe in the closet. He leaves his two knives and pistol in drawer next to his bed, then heads into the adjoining bathroom to shower. While toweling his green hair dry, he thinks that maybe changing his hair color might help him from being recognized on his jobs. Maybe he would go for red this time.

He changes into sweatpants and an old shirt before venturing out into the living room. He scoops Booker into his arm and crashes between Trevor and Matt on the couch. Trevor has left the laptop for a controller, and the two are playing Super Mario instead.

Matt groans at him when Jeremy’s elbow hits him, then shoves him hard so that he’s no longer leaning on him. “Matt! I’ve been betrayed! Is this how you treat your pal when he gets home from a harrowing job?” whines Jeremy, breathing out a sigh of relief now that he’s in the relative safety and comfort of their apartment.

Trevor huffs a laugh, but keeps his focus on the screen where he’s navigating a series of Piranha Plants. Matt grumbles.“Don’t you fuckin’ start, Jerem. And what do you mean, harrowing job?”

“I could have died from the glare that frontwoman of the Zetas gave me when I picked her up. She must have gotten that deal by killing every person in that building, because no sane person would ever deal with her brand of bitchiness,” Jeremy exclaims, mockingly indignant, running his fingers through Booker's soft fur. 

“It’s not as bad as having to pick up Kane himself, though,” Trevor points out, and Jeremy heartily agrees. Kane is aggravating at best and downright infuriating most of the time. He forces people into debt and then service to him, working the streets and making kids run his drugs and guns. Kane’s men aren’t loyal to him, they’re loyal to his money. Jeremy can’t wait for him to go down; with all transactions under a false name and Matt hiding all their records and identities, they’ll be able to escape discretely, hopefully with most of the money that they’ve been siphoning. Kane has only been operating full time in Los Santos for about a year, but he’s growing too big too fast, attempting to take some territory from some older crews in the city.

For Jeremy, all he cares about is keeping Matt and Trevor safe. He’s lost friends before, and he’s learned. Learned how to give more of himself, more of his humanity, so Matt is still alive and happy, throwing Cheetos at Trevor instead of behind bars for helping Kane evade police and hacking into security footage. He’s learned how to kill, how to push all guilt aside so that Trevor is safe whenever Kane sends him out to negotiate and run circles around the other crews’ talkers and frontmen.

Jeremy tries his best, and he knows that if he needs to, he can sacrifice for them the one thing that always seems to come back to him: his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremy supposes he should be thankful, to remember the kindness of the Columbia Point Gang. They took him in as one of their own in Boston when he was eighteen. They taught him how to drive in highspeed chases, how to shoot a gun. But they also taught him how to fight, how to make his own body into his best weapon.

Keep your fists level with your shoulder. Yout thumb goes the outside of your fist, between your first and second knuckles on your index and middle finger. For the love of God, protect you jaw and throat. Get the fuck back up and keep fighting until you can’t.

So that’s what Jeremy did. He fought in the rings, the underground bareknuckle rings where the vicious joy of winning was sweetened with whatever money sponsors threw at you. The sponsors liked a show, liked a clean fight, but they enjoyed a dirty fight even better. Scrawny kids were pitted against heavy-hitting brawlers, swiping and clawing as best that they could. Sniveling businessmen in debt to the ring owners begged for their lives as hired muscle took out their aggression on them and pounded them into the ground. After all was said and done, all the rich mobsters laughed in their seats, puffing on cigars as money exchanged hands.

Jeremy was a fairly regular fighter, with a few reliable sponsors and the luck of being favored by one of the ring owners. His fights were still never fair, since he was an underdog they could sell, but his life was never in danger like some. Jeremy stubbornly turned a blind eye to how some kids were forced into the ring, drowning it out with a little more alcohol, taking turns a little too fast and a little too sharp on the drive home. He pretends that it doesn’t feel good to fight in the ring, to feel the fire racing through his veins as he downs someone. He doesn’t tell anyone when he stops locking his favorite pistol in his gun safe and instead leaves it on his table in consideration some nights.

He tried to understand their motivation, that some really did need to make money to support their families. A regular sponsor would bring in his two sons sometimes, both no older than ten years old, and abandon them in the seats in the back of the room. Jeremy would gently lead them by the hand to the lobby of the abandoned laundromat that the ring ran under. He’d slip them a ten-dollar bill and tell them to stay out of trouble.

The best thing he finds in Boston is Kdin. She’s not a talkative person, but reveals that she got tangled up in the Columbia Point gang like he did, shipped in from Los Santos. After picking her up from few jobs, he grows to appreciate her more. She doesn’t ask about the bruises on his face, doesn’t look to far into the rides where he’s can’t bear to speak to anyone.

Then there’s an incident during one of their scouting jobs. She’s sitting in the passenger seat of his company Mustang one day, typing away at her computer and achieving things with code that he’ll never understand. The car is idling by the sidewalk while Kdin gets familiar with the security cameras on the bank across the street.

A man wearing a sports coat over a rumpled plaid shirt and khakis stumbles up beside them, and Jeremy vaguely recognizes him as one of the other hackers that works on active heists with Kdin. The man also looks drunk off his ass. Jeremy’s about to point him out but then the guy lurches for the car. He bangs forcefully on the window next to Kdin’s seat and she flinches back, the laptop rocking on her knees.

“Hey tranny!” He jeers through the window. Kdin’s face grows sullen and her lips curl up in sneer. Anger burns hot in Jeremy’s gut as he realized what the man was implying. “You fuckin’ bastard boy!” He slurs, then spits on the window.

He goes for the door handle, and that’s when Jeremy slams the car in reverse and drives straight back. The side mirror on the right side of the Mustang slams into the man’s side, and he crumples in a heap on the curb. Jeremy brakes and then looks back at Kdin. She’s not looking at him, hands clenched around her laptop.

“I’m sorry,” he says meekly, sincerely. She shakes her head. “You don’t have to apologize for him. I’ve got all I need from here,” she says, and it takes him a moment to remember that they had a job to do. Jeremy nods in acceptance and pulls onto the freeway to drive her back to her downtown apartment.

Fury still radiates off her in waves. His voice is hesitant when halfway through the ride he speaks. “I, uh, had a boyfriend in highschool. Was never the smartest or most respectful kid, so mom and dad didn’t feel too much remorse when they tossed me out,” he offers.

Kdin hums softly in acknowledgement. “I left before mine found out I wanted to start transitioning. I don’t care what they think happened to me, but I left right out of college when I was still fifteen.” That puts a small smile on Jeremy’s face. “Fifteen, huh?” He huffs out a laugh, “At least you got something going for you. I just think with my fists.” He sees Kdin crack a smile in the rearview mirror. The mood in the Mustang isn’t a suffocating as it was before.

Kdin tells him about her dream. She wants to leave Boston, to go back to her real chosen home, Los Santos. There’s a person there, Val, and she needs to go and apologize to them for something. She says that she’s close to being able to pay off the Columbia Point Gang for whatever debt she owes them. Jeremy listens with a sympathetic ear, but his chest feels tight when he listens to her. She has someone, a real family, to go back to. It hurts him a little more than he wants to admit when he realizes that except for the rings and streets here in Boston, he’s got no place and no one to call home. Either way, his heart feels a little lighter as Kdin waves at him before going into her apartment.

They talk more after that, about stupid ideas and casual things. Jeremy learns that Kdin wants to dye her hair. He goes along with her and helps her pick out a bright cotton-candy pink, but then a vivid blue shade catches his eye and he’s as good as gone. They leave the salon and laugh at their new reflections in the glass of shop windows as they walk down the crowded streets.

She invites him over for Destiny and Chinese food one night, and suddenly it’s a weekly thing where Jeremy goes to her apartment and flops onto her coach to complain dramatically about the pizza delivery boy who has the damn audacity to look cute even in the company’s standard blue polo. Kdin flicks his forehead and says that he just loves a man in uniform. Jeremy retaliates by furiously kicking her ass in Titanfall.

During one of their more drunk gaming sessions, Kdin reveals that she finally has enough money to fulfill that dream she told what feels like forever ago. The warm buzz he had been feeling disintegrates and a lump forms in Jeremy’s throat. Kdin pauses the game and looks him in the eye. “You’re welcome to come with me to Los Santos,” she offers, and there’s no pity in her voice. He  can't hold her gaze.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he murmurs to the floor, and she shakes her head at his stupidity. “Idiot,” she says fondly. “You’re going to your head out of your fucking ass and see that some people do actually care for you. You’re gonna come to Los Santos so you’re not working shitty jobs that get you hurt and make you hurt others. We’re leaving in a month.”

Jeremy can’t find words to express his gratitude, so he scoots to her side of the couch and wraps his arms around her. She hugs him tight for a second, then playfully shoves his shoulder. “C’mon, you big sap. Stop hugging me and start putting your hands on that delivery guy instead. You’re so bad as this gay shit,” she teases. Jeremy protests in mock anger and settles back onto the couch, and that’s that.

A week later, they’re working what’s supposed to be one of their last heists. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of the tech van that Kdin is working in, and she sits quietly in the back, watching the security footage as he fiddles with his phone. He jumps when the back door slams open and one of the hired muscle storms in, a duffel of cash gripped in one hand. There’s some sort of knife or bullet wound in his left arm, and he’s livid, spitting curses and foaming at the mouth.

He grabs Kdin by the back of her sweatshirt and yanks her up. Jeremy’s hand twitches towards the gun holstered at his hip, but he’s immobilized by his own terror. “You fucking cocksucking whore!” He thunders. “The fucking cameras turned on and the goddamn alarm went off! Everyone in there is fucking dead!”

The man hits Kdin hard with all his considerable weight behind it, first in the stomach, then the face. She goes limp in his grasp, and the man drops her on the floor of the van. Her broken glasses lay in shattered pieces, and drops of blood from her nose drip onto the bed of the van. Hot rage builds up in Jeremy, anger at the man, anger at himself for not doing anything.

The man whips around to look at him and pulls out a gun, aim steady. “Give me your weapons. Then you’re gonna drive.” There’s furious tears burning in his eyes and he’s shaking, but he puts his hands over his Beretta and Buck flipper knife before putting the car in drive. The man sits next to him the whole way, gun pointed at Jeremy’s head, growling directions. They make it to a seedier part of downtown Boston, and he tells Jeremy to pull into an alley. Tears are dripping steadily down his face. Jeremy knows what this is: the man is getting rid of the evidence.

The man drags him out and shoves him against the brick wall. Using his arm and solid chest to hold him in place, his other hand reaches behind him. Jeremy shoves as hard as he can, but as strong as he is the man is stronger. “Sorry, kid,” the hired gun grits out. Then the man slams a knife in Jeremy’s side.

Jeremy blinks for a moment, confused. The man yanks the knife out and drops him, and Jeremy stumbles to his knees. It feels like the man is pressing his fist against his side, just a harsh pressure. Then Jeremy looks down and sees blood.

Liquid fire begins to spread through his body, flowing from the wound in his side. He shrieks, grabbing at where the hilt is starting to become slippery with blood. The knife must be a thousand degrees, searing his skin. His breath comes out in short pants as he rides the waves of agony and his vision stops whiting out.

The hired gun is walking back to the van. He unholsters Jeremy’s own gun from his hip. Horror so strong it steals his breath fills his chest, crushing his lungs with an iron grip. The man reaches out, aims, and fires the entire clip into Kdin’s chest. 

Jeremy sees red. A ragged cry is torn from his throat as he claws he way back up to his feet, hands scrabbling for the knife that lays on the ground. The surprised man rips his own gun out of its holster and fires. His aim is off, and the bullet slams into Jeremy’s shoulder instead.

He know the impact should hurt him, but all he can feel is his white-knuckled grip on the knife and smoldering hatred. He rebalances and lunges at the man with the knife forward. The serrated edges catch on the man’s thick jacket, and Jeremy just shoves against the hilt harder until the blade is buried in man’s chest right over his heart. The hired gun weakly tries to grab at Jeremy’s throat, but the damage is done. The dying man shudders, and blood burbles from his lips. He’s eyes gloss over, and he crashes to the asphalt.

Jeremy’s knees go out, and he feels the impact of the ground all the way up through his teeth. Hot blood soaks the entire front of his shirt. There’s no sound in the alley except for his own laboured gasps.

Breathing is starting to hurt. He tries to hold his breath, but it comes out in wet, shallow pants anyway. He finds himself flat on his back, and black spots dance in front of his eyes, blocking out the gray-blue of the sky. He coughs once, and something warm drips down his face. He doesn’t know if it’s blood or tears.

Jeremy shuts his eyes.

 

He wakes up with a scream. His side and is shoulder are on fire again, the same lava creeping through his veins. He curls up as tight as he can and scrabbles at the wound in his side, but the knife is no longer there. The burning subsides, and with trembling hands he pulls up his shirt to look at his side.

There’s no gaping wound, and his shirt is stiff with dried blood. All that is there is a little silver scar where the knife was. His goes to feel the gunshot in his shoulder, but it’s not there anymore. He can’t think straight; he doesn’t know what’s going on. Jeremy scrambles to his feet and looks around, eyes searching frantically.

He’s still in the alley, pavement still soaked with blood. The man’s body still lays there, limbs askew. Jeremy swallows hard and looks away. It’s not the first man he’s killed, and it won’t be the last. He doesn’t want to look at the body he knows is inside of the van. _Coward_ , hisses his conscience.

He lurches down the alleyway. It’s dark outside and the streetlights have all turned on. They cast puddles of yellow light to combat shadows on the streets and sidewalks, and only one or two people are still walking on the sidewalk. Jeremy sticks to the patches of darkness until he finds an old unlocked car parked by the curb. He hotwires the ancient Lexus and hopes that it holds together until he makes it back to his apartment.

He takes the elevator straight up to his floor and thanks whatever God is out there that he didn’t get caught looking like the victim of a horrific stabbing. In a way, Jeremy thinks, he is. But that’s where logic escapes him and leaves him with only one bullshit explanation: he did actually die in that alley, but something kept him from staying that way.

He goes to take a shower and examine the disappearing the scars on his left side and shoulder. Illuminated by the cold blue light reflecting around the white walls of his cramped bathroom, Jeremy has to admit that he looks a little hellish. His eyes are ringed in dark circles and his shirt and jeans are both ripped and covered with dried blood. There’s a hand-shaped smear on his cheek where the hired gun had tried to grapple with him. Jeremy grimaces as he tilts his head and realizes that the blue shock of hair on the top of his head is dyed crimson with blood as well.

He scrubs his skin raw to get rid of all the dried flakes, and his scalp is tingling by the time the suds start washing out of his hair without being tinted pink. He throws his ruined clothes into a plastic bag and sends it down his floor’s garbage shoot.

He finally plugs his phone in and looks at the time when it powers on. It’s almost 10:00. Doing some quick math, he estimates that he was in the alley for about six hours before he woke up. There’s no way that he didn’t bleed out sometime after he got shot, and there was no evidence of any kind of stitches or miracle cure for major blood loss. There’s only one way to test this new development.

Jeremy drags himself off of his couch and goes back to his bathroom. His knife is back in the alley along with his gun, and he doesn’t feel like taking a steak knife to his arm. Instead, he takes one of the disposable razors he has stashed in the drawer and pops the small blades out of it. He grabs a clean towel and his small first aid kit just in case it turns out that he’s going insane and his theory doesn’t prove right.

Jeremy grips the small blade in between his thumb and pointer finger and takes a deep breath. Cloth in hand and ready to be used as a makeshift bandage, he quickly swipes the metal across the inside of his forearm. The cut is shallow and short, but it still makes him clench his jaw in pain. Blood wells up and runs off his arm, so he turns around so it drip into the bathtub. It takes about a minute, but the bleeding stops. Another minute and the wound no longer stings. Amazed, he starts the faucet in the tub and runs his arm under it.

The blood washes away easily and all that is left underneath is a rapidly disappearing scratch. His death must have triggered something since he’s gotten plenty of wounds before and they’re always healed normally. As he stares at the unmarred skin left behind, he’s hit by a barrage of emotions. Frustration pushes its way to the surface of the roiling disarray.

He’d finally got his shit together and started gathering money for their big move out West. His contract to the ring would be up in a week, and he hadn’t signed up for a new one. He and Kdin had just packed up her apartment the day before, carefully wrapping her favorite mugs and stacking then in boxes. He’d just been thrown into this mess, and he couldn’t find anyone to place the blame on but himself. He swallows hard and shuts his eyes as his mind flashes back to the alley against his will.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_ Each bullet makes her body twitch, like a puppeteer is pulling her strings. There’s blood seeping from the ruined mess of her sternum, gushing inconceivable amounts onto the floor of the van. It runs over, a flood rushing to drown him.

Jeremy’s eyes snap open as his stomach rebels at the gore. He’s on his knees vomiting into the bathtub before he knows it. When he’s done, he sits back on his ass and grinds the heels of his palm into his stinging eyes. The freezing waves of grief do nothing to ease the ache in his heart.

He stumbles to his feet and goes for his alcohol cabinet. The burn of whiskey joins the burn of bile in his throat until his memory blurs and he can imagine that Kdin is sitting beside him, a silent but warm presence as he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Struggled with the end of this chapter so I got it to the version I liked best and went with it.
> 
> Next chapter: Enter Treyco and Matt, along with another Fake appearance. This was all supposed to be one chapter, but the word count ended up being over 10k so I just decided split it up and have this one act as the sort of filler chapter.
> 
> As a novice writer I LIVE for any and all constructive criticism, so don't hold back on any advice you have to offer!


	3. Chapter 3

If he had to choose one word that described him, Jeremy would like to pick the word independent. He lived by himself for almost five months after he moved to Los Santos. All he’d had a spare pistol that was fucking useless since guns mean nothing if you can’t afford the bullets, as well as a small stolen knife that was decorated with initials that didn’t match his own.

He learned to appreciate that knife, fingers constantly finding their way to trace over the engraved letters when the cold bit at them and left his digits numb. He never thought that it would lead him to the enigma that was Trevor Collins.

For a while, he stole small amounts of cash from payment drop offs around the city. It was just fifty or a hundred dollars here and there, but never from the same drop off. Locations were swapped between those on Skid Row in exchange for favors, with the new and naive on the street being sent to the more forgiving alleys. Jeremy took zero shame in batting his eyelashes and pitching his voice a little higher to get some of the better spots. Survival of the fittest and all that bullshit.

It wasn’t a perfect system, and one slip-up could put you at the wrong end of a gun. It ended up being bad information about the drop off time that led to Jeremy’s downfall. He would usually get there half an hour before the actual drop off, then wait another hour before he swiped the money.

This time, the time given ended up being an hour off the actual time of the transaction. Jeremy, dumbass that he was, had swanned into the alley right as someone was placing the bags of cash behind some boxes to conceal them. Jeremy had frozen when the man jerked upright and noticed him. He was tall and lean, and his eyes were almost black in the darkness. He also looked as scared as Jeremy felt. The stranger held up his hands in surrender, and Jeremy silently crept closer. His hand found the knife in his pocket and held it out for the other to see, but he didn’t flip the blade out yet. He had no intention to hurt him.

“It’s all going be fine,” Jeremy said quietly. The other man couldn’t be more than a few years older than Jeremy, and his pale hands shook. “I just need some of that money.” The person stifled a sob, but turned to one of the black duffel bags and opened the zipper to grab a stack of money. As the man turned around again, Jeremy saw his stance widen and his weight shift to his back foot. He could barely throw his hands up to block the blow that followed.

Jeremy shuffled back to put distance between them and deftly flipped his knife open. His heart pounded with the promise of a fight and he focused on the person in front of him. Dark eyes flicked to the knife in his hand before landing on Jeremy’s again, cold and calculating. Gone was the frightened facade, replaced with a small self-confident smirk. “Just need some money, huh? I think you should look somewhere else,” laughed the man, and his voice had a nice musical lilt.

Their eyes stayed locked as Jeremy replied, “Yeah, I’m sorry about it. You know how it is.” The stranger hummed in agreement, then struck again, hands reaching for the knife. Jeremy had weight and strength on his side and shoved hard against the man’s chest with his left hand. He kept the knife in his right hand at his side. The man stumbled back but regained his footing and lunged again, trying to force his way into Jeremy’s space so he could snatch the knife. Jeremy anticipated the right jab and checked it, then followed up with an open-palmed hit to the man’s soft stomach.

He doubled over in pain and Jeremy grabbed a handful of his hoodie and pushed him up against the wall before placing the knife firmly against his neck. The man took gasping breaths that made the blade bobble against his Adam’s apple. “Killed with my own knife,” he panted, and Jeremy jerked back as though struck.

“What do you mean, your own knife?” Jeremy demanded, holding the small blade out in front of him as the man pushed himself off the wall and advanced on him. The tall figure smiled again, this time with more warmth in it. “Yeah. It stands for Trevor Collins. I’m pretty sure it’s mine, but I didn’t see the letters real clearly. May I?”

His dark eyes were now wide and earnest, so different from the distrust that had been there before that it was like a switch had been flipped. His voice was a shy little murmur in contrast to previous the icy words. The whole situation left Jeremy more than a little dazed and confused. Hell, just a second ago the guy had been ready punch his lights out and then he look like someone had found his lost puppy. But fool him twice, and the shame was only Jeremy’s to have. So he held out the knife with the initials on the hilt turned out and waited for the man to strike.

The man, _Trevor_ , stepped forward as if to inspect the knife. Just like he had before, he tried to use the element of surprise to his advantage and lunge quickly. Jeremy knew what was coming this time. The second Trevor lept, he tossed the knife behind him so he could use both hands to fend off Trevor’s attacks.

Trevor was tall and fairly strong, but he fought like he had never been in close combat before. It was all blunt nails scratching and messy hooks aimed to land a hit on his face. Jeremy blocked the punches and countered with soft blows, hoping that the other would tire fast and retreat. While Jeremy checked another kick to his side, Trevor’s fist connected with his nose, and he yowled as the cartilage crunched. Blood started to drip down his face, droplets staining his collar. It was time to put an end to this clusterfuck.

It took a second to drag Trevor into a headlock just because he was so tall. He still struggled, but made no attempt to yell for help. Trevor understood that this was a fight he had both started and lost.

“Okay. This is how it’s gonna go now. You got your fight and your chance. I’m going to leave, and you’re not going to say a word to your bosses. If not, you’ll be seeing me and that knife again soon, and I won’t be as nice as I was this time,” Jeremy growled next to Trevor’s ear. He was too hungry, hurt, and tired to give a fuck about the money at that point.

He shoved Trevor away from him, hard. The man tumbled to the ground, awkward limbs not helping him catch himself. Jeremy scooped up his knife and started to walk out of the alley. “Hey! Wait!” Jeremy growled in frustration. This had turned out to be more trouble than it was worth.

He turned around to confront Trevor and was met with the sight of him holding both bags of cash in his hands. More than a little fed up, Jeremy asked, “What do you think you’re doing?” Trevor tilted his head up and his lips curled into that damned smirk again. “I thought you said you needed money.”

The man said his name really was Trevor Collins, and that the knife had just been a convenient distraction. Jeremy begrudging gave him the butterfly knife anyway because Trevor was still shit at shooting a gun. He’s intelligent and infuriating, but he also is respectful of Jeremy’s personal space and desire to let some secrets lie. Jeremy taught Trevor how to defend himself, how to properly throw a punch and absorb the ones he couldn’t dodge. Trevor showed him how to use the right words and innocent eyes to play into people’s emotions.

Jeremy pretended that he wasn’t getting attached, that Trevor wouldn’t going to come back one day and Jeremy would be fine with it. Then Trevor went out and spent some of his own money on a new knife for Jeremy. His eyes teared up when he gently traced over the J.D. etched in the blade that matches Trevor’s own, and he knew that he didn’t ever want Trevor to leave.

They used the stolen money to rent an old one-bedroom apartment on the East side of Los Santos and buy bullets for the pistol. It was far enough away from Trevor’s old contractors that they couldn’t find him when it was found out exactly who took the money. They waited a month for it to blow over, and then Jeremy started looking into openings for jobs. He ended up being a driver and occasional sniper for the Los Zetas gang. The thrum of the powerful engine in the Audi he was lent made his heart soar and blood race. The lap he took around Los Santos made him feel like he was free even as he was being tied down by a new crew.

Trevor followed him, finding his place as a negotiator and thief for the Zetas. Jeremy joined him on stealth jobs sometimes, surprisingly silent despite his broader frame, and he’s good at scaling buildings and balconies.

At first Trevor laughed when he found out that Jeremy was a gymnast back in Boston, but then Jeremy did a perfect standing full during their next job, landing back on the hardwood with a quiet thump. Trevor started making so much incredulous noise that the homeowner woke up and they had to flee the house. Jeremy decided not to tell him that his hips were fucked up for the next two days because of it.

They met Matt during an assassination job. Unfortunately, it was because the person they’d been sent to kill was Matt himself, targeted for the information he stumbled across on the Zetas’ servers. Jeremy took one look at the shaggy-haired hacker slumped as his desk and shook his head at Trevor. An understanding passed between them.

They shook Matt awake and told him that he had to leave. He was far too trusting in Jeremy’s opinion, blindly allowed himself to be led by the two of them to the apartment. They all crashed on the kingsize bed, him and Trevor too paranoid for Matt’s sake to let him sleep alone out on the couch.

Once they took Matt in, it became regular to all just sleep in the same room. Night terrors made all them wake up with pounding hearts and garbled screams some nights. One night, in the vulnerability of the dark, Jeremy felt the need to answer all the questions that burned in Trevor’s searching eyes as he woke him from the illusions of lingering fire in his side and shoulder. The words stuck to the back of his throat. _I died, but I came back. I came back and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore_.

Matt eventually was able to make his way back into the good graces of the Zetas’, and they hired him as a CPA and hacker for them. The Zetas grew larger, edged onto more forbidden territory and demanded more from the crews that they had stuck under their thumbs. They started to set their sights on the Kings of Los Santos.

Jeremy told Matt and Trevor to keep their heads down and not to accept any dangerous jobs until the Zetas’ fascination with the Fakes died down. While the Fake AH Crew was tight knit and gave an honest shit about the lives of the people they employed, the Zetas didn't have any loyalty for their members. Then Kane entered the Zetas in a whirlwind of righteous attitude and a desire to finally take down the Fakes in a blaze of glory. He was a chancer, and Jeremy hated him.

Kane sent crew members on missions he knew they couldn’t complete, made several negotiators try to reason with one of the small gangs they had angered and let it end in a massacre. It made Jeremy feel helpless and frustrated. He took more dangerous jobs, drove more precarious routes to get people out of the line of fire during jobs. If he wasn’t taking out every car on every road to become familiar with handling it, he was at the range practicing with his sniper rifle.

It hit him hard one night as he sat on the bonnet of his Audi atop Chiliad, so sudden it took his breath away. He could do all of this with no consequences anymore. Wounds healed fast, and death apparently didn’t apply to him anymore. He could protect them, the innocent in the city of sin, give everything for them if he had to.

He gazed at the neon lights until the image of his city was burned onto his retinas.

He came back to the apartment late, and Trevor and Matt were curled around each other on the couch, fast asleep. The sight of them tugged on his heartstrings, and he knew that all his work was worth it. He grabbed a blanket to spread over them, and Trevor, always a light sleeper, stirred awake at the noise.

He blinked the sleep out of his eyes as Jeremy returned with the blankets. “Sorry,” Jeremy said softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.” Trevor hummed in contentment as he stretched out his shoulders and tried not to shift Matt’s head on his lap. “It’s fine, J. Was it any use?”

Jeremy nodded and sat in the comfy chair across from the couch. “Yeah, it was good. They closed the range early so I went through some roads up by Chiliad.” “That’s the second time this week. You’ve never been nervous about anything going on in the crew before,” Trevor pointed out, too observant for his own good.

“I know. It’s just that I don’t to see anyone else get hurt because of this stupid Fakes obsession Kane has. If I can do anything to stop it…” He trailed off. Trevor’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“You said that you weren’t worried about the Fakes. That Kane would move on.” Jeremy shrugged, “That’s what I did think at first, but it’s been almost six months and Kane isn’t showing anys sign of stopping.” Trevor sighed and sank deeper into the couch. “You worry so much,” he grumbled. “Just fucking trust us for once during jobs and let us do our thing.” Trevor’s words would’ve hurt if there hadn’t been a small grin on his face that softened the blow.

Jeremy does trust them; he’d given them each a piece of his heart knowing that they would never hurt him. It’s the universe that he’s doesn’t trust. No matter how good the three of them are at avoiding death, there’s still the chance that an accident will take everything away from him again.

Jeremy’s second death didn’t haunt him as much as his first. He was in his sniper’s nest, observing the apartment of his most recent target. Sudden static from his earpiece made him jump, but it coalesced into Matt’s voice after a second.

“Hey Jerem. You’ll be happy to know that Arya isn’t allergic to that new food we got yesterday.” Jeremy sighed as he kept his scope trained on a potted plant in the target’s livingroom, “The cat’s name is Scooter, Matt. You can’t change the name of my cat.” Matt made a noise of dissent. “It’s not your cat. Your cat is Booker, you already claimed him. Besides, I don’t trust anyone who has cats with names like Booker, Scooter, and Zipper. They aren’t real names.”

“Arya isn’t a real name either! And the rule is finders keepers, so technically all the cats are mine,” Jeremy said stubbornly. He could almost hear Matt’s eyeroll though the comm. He shifted his weight around a bit to keep his knees from getting sore, and took a quick glance down at his phone. There was still another hour left before the target would even get home.

Suddenly, and without any noise to warn him of someone approaching, there was a hard kick in the center of his back. Jeremy went over the short parapet with a scream. He spun and flailed, windmilling his arms to try and do something, anything. He can’t remember hitting the ground.

When Jeremy woke, it was to the same roaring fire in his body as the first time. It was everywhere, incinerating all his broken bones only to replace them with rods of searing melted iron. Tears sprang to his eyes and he clenched his jaw to keep from yelling.

After the pain faded, Jeremy dragged himself to his feet. The still-warm blood he could feel on his clothes made him gag, but at least it meant less time had passed between his death and resuscitation. His rifle lay a few meters away, shattered pieces of it scattered all around. He sighed. That had been a nice gun. Jeremy took a few deep breaths to calm himself then grabbed the remaining pieces of warped metal that used to be his Lapua long range.

He climbed back up the fire escape to the roof, but no one was there. His phone, coffee-filled thermos, and even his rifle case sat right where he left them. Jeremy unlocked his phone and saw that it had been less than five minutes since he’d fallen. He put it to his ear and waited for the yelling to start. Matt picked up after two rings, and the tirade began.“What the fuck happened? All I could hear was yelling and then the comm went out! What the fuck! What the fuck!” Matt screeched.

“Sorry about that Matt. Some guy decided to get the jump on me. He tried to grab my sniper out my hands and must have knocked my earpiece out when we were fighting,” Jeremy lied, keeping his voice quiet in case someone was still on the roof. He switched to speaker phone and started to look around for any evidence his attacker might have left behind.

“Are you hurt?” At least Matt sounded a little less frantic, but his tone had edged in the territory of extremely pissed. Jeremy searched behind an AC unit, but found nothing. The roof looked abandoned. “No, I’m good. I’m just looking around for anything this person could have left behind. I don’t think they’re anywhere near the building anymore.”

“What do you mean you think they’re not anywhere near the building?” Matt was definitely pissed.

“I mean that they ran and I didn’t see where they went?” Jeremy winced. If it didn’t sound very convincing to himself, it would sound like absolute bullshit to Matt. Matt just sighed and the sound of typing resumed in the background. “Whatever. As long as I don’t have to bury any bodies. And you’re okay too, I guess.”

“Your concern for my safety is so amazing. I feel like I’m drowning in your brotherly love,” Jeremy deadpanned, and Matt’s laughter crackled over the phone before he hung up. He headed back to his post and grabbed his damaged Lapua. There was no way he was going to be able to shoot it, but the scope was still intact so he positioned the rifle back on the parapet and adjusted it until he could see into his target’s apartment again.

Jeremy had to admit that he was focusing less on the deal and more on his death. The idea of it didn't shock him anymore. He had tested the healing, had gone over the details of his first death as many times as he could stomach. Seeing it in action still made him stare in awe as silver scars faded back to unmarred skin. Jeremy had a sinking suspicion that it was going to lose its charm real fast.

* * *

The orange and purple look nice, Jeremy decides. It’s been a week since he drove Gavin Free back to his apartment, and it still makes him nervous when he thinks about the money stashed in his bedroom safe. Matt and Trevor respect his privacy enough not to go snooping through his stuff, but it isn’t them that he’s worried about.

While he’s not the most inconspicuous criminal in Los Santos, Jeremy is fairly cautious. He goes by different monikers when doing private jobs, and the Zetas only know him by his first name; Jeremy, the guy who could snipe a man fast and drive a car faster.

But he had told Gavin his name and hadn’t even made an attempt to disguise his face, voice, or hair. Not to mention the fact that he could probably lift Jeremy’s license plate from security camera footage. While Jeremy can’t get a new car from the Zetas without crashing his current Audi, he can switch up the variables that are malleable.

Trevor and Matt honestly think the new colors are ridiculous.

“All my friends are so fucking weird,” Matt laments as the three of them wait in line at the bank. They’re doing their monthly drop of cash into their accounts, and some of the other customers aren’t very subtle in the glances they’re giving the trio. Trevor and his colorblindness can’t really be blamed, but he usually at least attempts to match his clothes based off of what Matt and Jeremy tell him. Today, the light lilac button down and maroon corduroys make for an interesting combination, but Trevor looks could care less. Jeremy just honestly has fuck-all sense of fashion.

He’s about to snap a reply that includes a dig at Matt’s ever-present red hoodie, but then a flash of color in the corner of his eye catches his attention.

“Do recognize her? Lady at your three o’clock,” Jeremy hisses to Matt, indicating a girl dressed in pin-striped shorts and a loud floral shirt sitting on a nearby bench. She’s pretty in a very natural way, all fiery red curls and round, freckled cheeks. Even though she’s tapping away at a phone, she looks up every few seconds and gazes around the lobby. Jeremy certainly isn’t the smartest person in the bank, but he isn’t oblivious enough to not recognize the frontwoman of the Fakes, Jack Pattillo.

Her face is everywhere on the news from their heists, sometimes disguised with a mask, other times just mugshots with a smirk painted cherry red from a split lip. The Pilot, invincible in the sky with any plane, helicopter, or jet. An silver-tongued negotiator during deals, a siren armed with a gentle voice and disarming smile until she dragged you down to cower at the foot of Ramsey’s throne.

Matt brushes his hair back, using the movement to disguise his glance in Pattillo’s direction. His hand is shaking minutetly when he lowers it back to his side. “Yeah. The Fakes are here,” he mumbles, quiet enough that only they can hear it.

Jeremy waits until she's looking back at her phone before tugging at Trevor’s shirt cuff and tipping his head in the direction of the red-head. Trevor spots her and pulls his phone out. It’s much more discreet for them to text than to talk in the open space.

_What's the plan?_

Jeremy reads Trevor’s question in their chat and types out a quick reply.

_Nothing. Mind our business and get out ASAP._

Matt looks like he wants to argue as he slips his phone back into his pocket, but he stays silent. They wait patiently wait out the next five minutes until it’s their turn up at the teller. Matt is halfway through depositing his last check when the lights above them shatter and the sound of bullets deafens them.

Jeremy grabs a handful of Matt’s sweatshirt and Trevor’s shoulder and shoves them to the ground before pressing himself as close to the floor as he can. He keeps his hands palm-down on either side of him in case he needs to get up quickly and run.

Jeremy keeps his eyes up and watches as Pattillo, who had been sitting peacefully before, aims her double pistols at the people scrambling for the floor. “Stay on the ground!” She yells. “Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt!”

The glass lobby doors open, and in strolls the Crew’s other red-head: Mogar. He’s swinging a sawed-off shotgun by his side, a delighted grin on his face. There’s five black duffel bags in his other hand. The tension in the bank thickens as he saunters up to the desk next to Jeremy. The girl at the desk shakes so much she has to brace herself on the counter.“Alrighty. Money in the bags, fool,” he grins cheerfully and brings the shotgun up to rest against her forehead. She quakes, petrified; she cannot move. Jeremy’s heart drops to his stomach.

Mogar’s smile slips from his face. “C’mom, bitch. All the money, and don’t skimp or I’ll know,” he warns, more insistent. She doesn’t move, only slumps against the counter. The Fake growls in frustration. The shotgun pressed to her head moves to the meat of her shoulder almost as fast as the bullet that follows. She collapses to the ground with barely a whimper, already in shock.

Jeremy flinches at the gunshot, but keeps his eyes on the Jersey devil standing less than ten feet away. His heart pounds in his chest, palms sweaty against the marble floor. Mogar’s fierce gaze flicks to the teller who had been helping Matt. He strides over, and his trainers stop less than a foot away from Trevor’s side.

“Start loading up the cash, or you’ll end up like she did,” he says, hefting his gun to get the point across. “One bag for each register, so go down the line.” The teller pulls the bags across the counter and starts emptying his register without another word. Mogar heads back in Pattillo’s direction, and Jeremy lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He can see why the Fakes don't always need guns to intimidate people. In the golden evening light they shine like polished bronze, unbreakable Adonises that the law can’t even hope to touch. They don't need weapons to light the flame of fear that’s burning in his chest.

They lay on the floor in silence while minutes creep by like hours. Eventually, both Mogar and Pattillo come to collect, and Jeremy follows them with his eyes. The team of Fakes grab the bags of cash that the teller crammed full. As they turn back to the front doors, the whine of sirens starts up outside. Mogar stops short and swears.

“Fucking Christ. What do you want to do?” he asks Pattillo as she checks how much ammo she has left. She must not be happy with the number of bullets she has left, because she frowns at her crewmate before ordering, “Stick to the original plan. We can still leave via the roof; it’s too soon for there to be choppers. Grab a hostage so we can make sure they won’t shoot at us from the ground if we’re spotted.”

Mogar nods, and then he looks down as Trevor’s prone form. He nudges his side with the barrel of the shotgun. “Get up.” Panic makes Jeremy’s heart skip a beat and he moves almost without realizing it. Before Trevor can even twitch, he’s levered himself to his knees, hands out in surrender. His voice cracks when he pleads, “No!”

Mogar narrows his eyes at him, but the gun never leaves his side. A second passes, then another. “What are you waiting for, fucker?” He growls. “Get up in his place if you want to be the hero.”

Jeremy scrambles to his feet and lets himself be manhandled by the Fake crewmember. His fingers grip his bicep tight enough to leave bruises, the metal barrel is pressed hard against his temple. Mogar leads him back behind the teller’s counters to where the stairwell is. Pattillo follows behind them, hand full with the cash-stuffed bags.

She opens the door to the roof, and they can all see the flashing lights from over the edge of the building. As far as Jeremy can tell, the police don’t see them since no shots are fired. When they make it to the fire escape that leads off the back of the bank, Mogar pushes Jeremy down, hard. He scrapes his palms and knees raw as he catches himself so his chin doesn’t slam into the concrete.

Mogar looks down at him, searches him with smoldering hazel eyes lit by the setting sun. “You’re a good person, to go instead of you friend,” he admits, voice low. Understanding flashes across his face, quick but recognizable. “There’s not a lot of people willing to do that,” Mogar finishes, and the words sound so eerily familiar to the ones Gavin had said that it gives Jeremy déjà vu.

“Well, thanks for the help,” Mogar says as he turns and bounds down the stairs. The wolf on his leather jacket seems to sneer at Jeremy before it’s out of sight.

Jeremy sits and contemplates the Fake’s words in the golden light smeared with the red and blue. He walks down to the lobby on autopilot.

There’s police there now, officers writing down the accounts of all the people in the bank. A mother holds her two kids closer and cries into her phone. A pair of cops give first aid to the teller who was shot. When Trevor sees him, he yanks him into a hug.

“That was stupid,” he says, long arms wrapped around him squeezing tight, almost suffocating him. “You’re so fucking stupid, you know that, right.” Jeremy just nods into Trevor’s shoulder.

He feels like he’s been stuck in a bad dream for the past month. His entire life he’s always had things that made his chest tight with anxiety and fear, but it feels like terror is there permanently. He’s trying to keep his head above water, fight the flood of new threats against his friends, his family. The Fakes, Kane, it’s all coming to a point and he can’t seem to find a way to keep his own safe. Trevor pulls away, and the trio stick close together and slink past the swarm of cops. Outside the bank, it’s easier to breath. In the distance, Jeremy can hear the shrill cry of more sirens. The sky burns, red and orange and yellow fading into the deep blue-black.

They talk about things that don’t matter as they loiter around a park down the street from the bank. “I think we just go back to the apartment,” Matt offers to counter one of Trevor’s suggestion of a late grocery run. Jeremy nods, the halcyon light of the streetlamps reminding him of the wolf’s eyes of golden thread.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted in celebration of being cleared for play after my most recent concussion yay
> 
> Comment below with all the critiques you can think of or any advice you have for this chapter, especially if something seems off in the grammar or comes across unclear. I'm slowing getting use to writing in English, but I still lose things in translation.
> 
> I love any and all comments and can definitely use all the constructive criticism I can get so feel free to share them!
> 
> \- Niahm


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